“In Australia. So I was three years since. Then I got homesick, and came back to New York.”
“You have been here three years?”
“Yes,” chuckled Bolton. “You didn’t suspect it, did you?”
“Where?” asked Curtis, in a hollow voice.
“I keep a saloon on the Bowery. There’s my card. Call around when convenient.”
Curtis was about to throw the card into the grate, but on second thought dropped it into his pocket.
“And the boy?” he asked, slowly.
“Is alive and well. He hasn’t been starved. Though I dare say you wouldn’t have grieved if he had.”
“And he is actually in this city?”
“Just so.”